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They’d finally shared details of their plans once the team was all together, lights strung up all over the Lighthouse for New Year’s and the old base so much warmer than it had once been.May had flown them out here two days later with nothing much more than a I know a place. She’d borrowed a jeep from a hangar whose elder occupants greeted her with startled recognition, tugged the keys from her pocket upon arrival and opened the door for them in silence.The house had been dusty inside, in almost perfect condition otherwise. It had that quietly melancholy air of a house long since empty, the faint scuffs on the wood polish and memories of warmth that meant it had once been lived in, loved. It wasn’t until Jemma saw the absent way May leaned her hip against a cabinet that wouldn’t shut properly unless you shoved it just right, the way she watched them walk around more than she looked at the house, that it finally clicked. Or: Jemma and May, and a story for a home and its memories; for lives lost and the still living, and for a different sort of joy than you ever imagined.